


All the Hours You Wait

by dynamicsymmetry



Series: Pacify [7]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, F/M, Forced Masturbation, Semi-public masturbation, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 09:56:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl isn't just doing things to Beth anymore. He's telling her to DO things. All kinds of things. Little things. </p><p>Not-so-little things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Hours You Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Because fuck the MSP is why.
> 
> Title from Grimes's ["Oblivion".](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JtH68PJIQLE)

So after that everything is a little bit different.

This is a refrain. It’s something to which they keep circling back around, but every time it’s altered so slightly. Every time they’ve added something new. She thinks about how you build a song, an arrangement of one, layer by layer. Part by part. You do it slowly and carefully and you pay attention to detail and in the end you have something flowing and beautiful and so alive.

After that everything is a little bit different. He’s not just doing things to her.

He’s telling her to do things.

He tells her how he wants her. Tells her how he wants her to arrange herself, what he wants her to do, what he wants her to do to herself and to him. He talks more in general, low murmurs, whispers in her ear. Not a lot, because that wouldn’t be him and no matter how much he changes she can’t see that being something that does, but it’s still new. He does more than order her around; he praises her. Teases her. Finds ways to make her laugh even when she’s tied down and her ass and thighs are burning from the flat of his hand and the scrape of the blade’s edge. Finds ways to make her laugh even when she’s just about pleading with him to let her come.

But it’s not even just that, that he’s talking, what he’s saying. Everything they’ve done together like this – and it’s not the only way they have sex, not even now – has been self-contained and removed from everything else. It’s been a world they build and into which they go where they make their own rules and everything is for them alone. It’s felt safe that way, even a little necessary, but she feels like it’s starting to change. The edges are starting to get a little blurry. He’s not just touching her in the days after, grazing his fingers over the marks he’s left on her. Not just that.

He’s telling her to do things. Little things. Calling her to him simply because he wants to look at her. Telling her to turn around so he can tug her hair over her shoulder, kiss the back of her neck. Telling her he wants her at a specific place, at a specific time, and not necessarily telling her why, and it’s not even necessarily about doing anything specific to or with her. More than often he wants her there for something completely innocuous. He just tells her to do it and she does.

It’s like the back of her neck. Where he’s kissed her. His hand there, all the time. Gentle and heavy.

If she wanted to, she could say no. She knows it. She knows he would back down without her having to say it twice, and she knows he wouldn’t resent her for it and he wouldn’t say anything else about it unless she wanted to talk. It’s like the knife. She can feel that. He’s testing her. Trying something out and waiting to see what she does. Tossing her a ball and waiting to see if she wants to toss it back to him or put it down or run away with it and make him chase her.

When he tells her to do things she smiles, flushes a little. This alone makes her feel good.

But then there’s something else.

~

He pushes her against the wall of one of the buildings they use primarily for storage. Not hard, not painfully, but he places a hand against her shoulder, just left of her chest, and he pushes her back and she pulls in a hard little gasp. She knows he’s strong, knows the power in his arms, but now and then he really makes her _feel_ it.

No one can see them. They’re not in anyone’s line of sight. But they’re outside and it’s broad daylight, not even noon, and there’s a look in his eyes that sends shivers racing all up and down her spine.

He wants her for something. He didn’t call her over and take her here just to _kiss the back of her neck._

She could ask him. But suddenly that feels like… It feels like overstepping.

It feels like it’s not her place.

So she waits for him to tell her.

He moves close, practically trapping her with his body, cups the side of her face with his palm – warm and rough – and tilts her head up slightly so he can kiss her brow. Soft. She can feel him smiling.

And she understands this is a game. Like she’s wanted. Like she’s wanted so much for him to feel. He’s _playing._ Something jumps in her, tight and happy – and other things too.

She’s already getting wet, heat settling between her legs. As soon as he pushed her back.

He looks down at her, little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Whenever he smiles it looks a little like it’s out of his control. She’s never seen him smile and felt like it was something he was trying for. He smiles and it almost seems like it’s in spite of himself. In spite of everything.

So it’s real. Realer than anything. She licks her lips, waits.

“Touch yourself.”

It takes her a second to process what he’s said, and what he’s telling her to do. Exactly what he means. Then it’s those shivers again, hotter and harder - and she’s also abruptly nervous in a way she hasn’t been. Not with him, not like this. Under the trees, they were in the shadows. It was late. No one was around. There was a risky little edge to it, but it felt mostly safe.

This, though.

She swallows, hesitates, and for a moment she actually thinks she might be about to tell him no. And if she doesn’t immediately, if she doesn’t shake her head or try to push past him, it’s not because she thinks she wouldn’t be able to. Not because she thinks he might not take it well.

She just doesn’t know if _no_ is what she wants to say.

She kind of thinks it's not.

Something flickers across his features, and he waits for a few seconds, and she knows he’s waiting for her. Giving her that chance, that space to place the ball on the ground between them and stop the game. But when she doesn’t, when she just stares up at him and feels her whole body heating, he leans in closer and the hand on her shoulder presses her. Pins her.

“You heard me.”

She isn’t sure she can move. Isn’t sure she has any control over this. And another part of her knows she has _all_ of it, and if she doesn’t move it’s because she’s decided she won’t, not yet, because he’s not the only one who can push, and maybe she’s curious. About what he’ll do.

She licks her lips again. She feels very small like this. She doesn’t hate it. “Please.”

He grips her jaw. Not hard, not hurting her – but it’s a grip. His fingers are digging into her cheeks. She whimpers, tries to bite it back, isn’t successful.

“Do it.”

So her hand is moving.

She’s scared. She is. She’s not going to pretend to herself that she isn’t, and she’s not going to try to keep him from seeing, because she knows with every ounce of what she feels for and with him that he _wants_ her to be scared. He wants to see that. He wants to see that she’ll do it anyway in spite of the fear. Because he told her to.

And he wants to see that she likes it.

And she does. Even the fear. _Especially_ the fear. She gets her jeans open and works her fingers into them, under her panties, between her thighs… And fuck, yes, she’s already soaked. _God._ He’s watching her, and while there’s heat in that gaze and when he pressed against her seconds ago she could feel he was hard, there’s something about it that’s also _detached_ , and she realizes that he’s not going to do anything. He’s not going to make her do anything to him. That’s not what this is about.

This is just about her.

That makes her hot all over again.

It doesn’t take a lot of concentration. Her fingers slide in, brush her clit, and she whimpers, whimpers louder as they settle over it and press and circle. She can already tell it’s not going to take her very long, and thank Christ for that, but that fear is still moving through her in waves, sending her breath out of her in desperate little pants.

“Please,” she whispers again, and he says nothing at all. Just looks at her, the fall of his hair casting a shadow across his eyes.

He’s not even looking at her hand. His gaze is locked on her face.

Already her hips are rolling forward, pressing against her own fingers, seeking more of what she’s doing to herself. He’s still pinning her by her shoulder, and she feels suddenly as immobilized as if he’s tied her, just as powerless, and that _surges_ through her, catching her breath and dragging it back into her throat. She tries to regulate it, tries to keep breathing, but everything in her is tense and coiled and she’s half listening for anyone coming, and _fuck_ , what if they found her like this, what would they think, and she doesn’t give a fuck.

Or maybe she does. A lot. Maybe that’s why this feels so good.

“Daryl,” she breathes, and again that smile.

“Better hurry.”

She lets out a tight little sob, fingers starting to tremble. All of her starting to tremble. It does feel good, it’s _so_ good, him on her and strong and forcing her to do this, except he’s not forcing her at all, this was something she _wanted_ and she didn’t even know it, and she arches herself forward and back both at once and says his name again. Again, in a whine, and if that smile is small his eyes are pretty much _glowing_ with another smile that’s wide and pleased…

And proud. Like he says sometimes. Proud of her. So in love with her he doesn’t know what to do.

Except apparently he does.

That might be all she needs. The last thing she needs. She shoves herself forward and shakes, almost convulses, and she’s parting her lips, a cry building in her throat, but before she can make a sound he lifts his other hand and clamps it over her mouth.

And she thinks she almost comes all over again.

It leaves her boneless. Sagging between the wall and him. She can gasp; he’s removed his hand and all at once he’s catching her, holding her against him, and before she even has a chance to resettle her feet under her he grasps her wrist, pulls her hand to his mouth and sucks her fingers clean.

She’s really not sure how she’s supposed to just go back to her day.

But too soon he’s releasing her. Stepping back. He’s still hard, and she nearly offers to do something about that for him, but once more it feels weirdly presumptuous. If he wanted that he would tell her. She’s done everything he asked of her.

He’s done with her for now.

He nods toward the garden across the street, which she had been weeding. That smile is still playing about his lips, still warm, still pleased. “Get outta here.”

So she does up her jeans and, still dazed, she starts to walk away.

“Beth.”

She freezes, turns. She’s not sure if she’s apprehensive or if she wants him to call her back and do all _kinds_ of things to her right here in the middle of everything, but she stares at him with her stomach doing backflips and waits.

And the look on his face… She knows that look, and her stomach stops doing backflips as something brilliant blooms in her chest.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

God, he does.

She smiles, and she doesn’t know if it’s dazzling but she feels like maybe it is. She presses her fingertips to her lips.

_Remember._

She leaves him and goes back to the world.


End file.
